


now that I see you

by GreenyLove



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Background Relationships, Banter, Dialogue Heavy, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Logic, Falling In Love, Flower Crowns, Happy Ending, Inspired by Tangled (2010), Kissing, M/M, Magic, Major Character Injury, Mild Blood, Plants, Self-Discovery, Swearing, Talking Animals, Trans Male Character, Trans Tsukishima Kei, cw: frying pan, deus ex machina: ushijima wakatoshi, okay they don't actually talk but they possess human intelligence, references to original fairytale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26716252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenyLove/pseuds/GreenyLove
Summary: It begins with a frying pan.Whack!“Oh my god.”In a tall, tall tower in the middle of the wilderness, a boy with hair like moonlight crouches in horror next to an unconscious man.(Tsukishima Kei dreams of seeing the silver rampions bloom. When a thief crawls through his window, he seizes his chance.)
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou/Tsukishima Kei
Comments: 18
Kudos: 112
Collections: Luna & Noir: KuroTsuki Fest 2020





	now that I see you

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Luna & Noir 2020! I was very excited to get this prompt. I hope I did it justice, prompter. 
> 
> This story does assume that the reader is familiar with Disney's Tangled. If you haven't seen it, you will be spoiled. If you have seen it, you know why I tagged major character injury and you know I only hurt Kuroo bc Disney made me do it. :') 
> 
> Please enjoy prompt #12!

It begins with a frying pan. 

_Whack!_

“Oh my _god.”_

In a tall, tall tower in the middle of the wilderness, a boy with hair like moonlight crouches in horror next to an unconscious man. 

The man sprawls on his stomach, limbs akimbo, nose smashed against the floor where he dropped with an unattractive grunt when one startled Tsukishima Kei smacked him across the head. He is sweaty, covered in dirt, and has leaves sticking out of his atrocious hair. One ankle remains tangled in the vines crowding the windowsill, stretching his leg backwards. It’s comedic, almost. He shouldn’t be laughing, but he can’t fight down the hysterical giggles bubbling out of his throat. 

There’s a man in his tower. 

“Yamaguchi?” 

The woodland lizard in question peeks out from behind Tsukishima’s knee, bracing himself against it with a small, five-fingered foot.They both eye the stranger with shock and disbelief. 

There’s a strange, dirty, likely _dangerous_ man in the tower. A tower no one but Tsukishima and his older brother know exists. A tower Akiteru has not visited in weeks and is not scheduled to visit for another week more.

There is a man in the tower and Tsukishima is alone. 

“Yamaguchi,” he whispers, “what the fuck?” 

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The story begins like many do: with a dream. 

In a beautiful city built on an island, a young wife prepares to have a baby. She loves her first child — a golden boy with wit and charm and a loud laugh — and the thought of bearing another fills her with light to rival the sun. She dreams of healthy babes and a proud husband and a house that echoes with innocent laughter. 

One night, the young wife falls ill. 

She grows grayish and sickly. Honeysuckle eyes dim as her body weakens and starves. She dreams of feasts, of tables buckled under the weight of a harvest’s bounty, yet no food settles her stomach nor sates her endless cravings. The young husband worries that she longs for what does not exist, that his wife will leave him widowed, consumed by her own inexplicable hunger. 

Still, he brings whatever she demands: pure white cow’s cream, corn with tassels of gold, the most succulent and strange meats, an apple from a distant king’s orchard. 

Yet the young wife grows greyer and greyer until her hair loses its warm color and falls like dulled silver around her weeping face.

The next day, she makes the strangest demand of all. 

She asks not for any earthen grain or ocean’s bounty, flesh of fruit or beast, but for tea made from a rare and beautiful flower of which there is only one in the world. 

The sunrise after the next, the young husband leaves for a month and a day, only to return bearing a small plain flower in a small plain pot. Some say the flower was white, others say blue; some claim it glowed, others that it sang if you held it close to your ear. What is known is this: the young wife recovers, delivers a silver-haired babe, and never speaks even the simplest request again. 

When her young son shreds his dresses and cuts his hair and declares his name is Kei, she does not request he stop. When her young son falls asleep in the garden and wakes up nearly suffocated by a riot of flowering vines, the young wife touches the pale blooms and weeps. When her husband bundles the young son onto a horse and off into the far wilderness, she does not say anything at all. 

That is how a young wife wakes up one day to find a bitter husband, a golden son who no longer smiles, and a silent house. That is the end of the young wife’s dream. 

But the _story_ has barely begun.

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For Tsukishima Kei, it begins with a question, the summer before his eighteenth birthday.

“Can I go to the Autumn Moon Festival?”

Akiteru looks up from their chess game, stunned. 

“The festival in town, on my birthday,” Tsukishima clarifies, in case there was any confusion. 

“I’m familiar,” Akiteru says, leaning back in his chair. He looks at Tsukishima, brows in a hard, serious line. As brothers they share the same warm gold eyes. During most of their visits, Akiteru’s are filled with soft kindness. 

Sometimes, though, he looks at Tsukishima and Tsukishima is reminded of all the things they never talk about, like why Father writes him letters but Mother does not, or why Akiteru looks distinctly uncomfortable when Tsukishima brings up the world outside the tower, or why Tsukishima’s hair is almost translucent silver while Akiteru’s is a light honey blonde. 

“Why?” Akiteru asks, then amends, “I mean, why now? Why this festival?” 

Tsukishima is ready for this. He reaches under his chair and places a worn field journal next to the chessboard. It does not escape his notice that Akiteru’s eyes harden at the sight of the unassuming brown leather book. 

“There is a flower,” Tsukishima begins, “a flowering vine, more accurately. It only blooms once per year, and only for a few days at the beginning of fall.” 

He flips open to a page marked with a fraying ribbon. Sketches of a rare and beautiful bloom spread across the paper. The pictures are so meticulous and lifelike he often pretends he can smell the petals if he presses the parchment to his face. 

“Silver rampion, _genus_ unknown,” he pretends to read, finger skimming the page though he keeps his attention firmly on his brother. “According to this journal, it grows on the rooftops in Shiratorizawa and blooms on the final night of the festival.” 

Akiteru smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I can certainly bring you a specimen, Kei.” 

Tsukishima flips to another page and points to a germination chart filled with cramped notes. “Silver rampion is almost impossible to successfully propagate. Most samples wither immediately upon harvest. But if I collected the specimen myself, I could keep it alive. It _has_ to be me.”

He clings to composure, but it’s difficult to keep the eager longing out of his voice. His brother sighs, closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he looks around the tall tower room. Everywhere, there are plants: hanging from the rafters, growing on trellises up the walls, in pots of all sizes. Akiteru looks at every blossom and bud raised in the tower - including Tsukishima himself, the boy who makes life bloom with his touch. 

“Please, Akiteru.” Tsukishima gestures to the pressed flowers in frames hanging on the walls — specimens lovingly preserved from every corner of the woodlands, and many more raised from seeds supplied by Akiteru, bartered from places Tsukishima would never go. They are his only connection to the world outside. “With your help, I’ve found every flower described in that journal except for that one.” 

Akiteru looks pained. “Kei.” 

“I’ve never asked to leave.” It rushes out of him too forcefully, and he winces when Akiteru’s expression shudders. Tsukishima tugs on his fingers and resists the urge to slouch. “And I won’t ask ever again, I promise. I...only get one eighteenth birthday. I thought this would make a nice present.” 

It is the elder son’s turn to wince. 

“I’ll ask Father,” he deflects. 

Tsukishima swallows against the lump in his throat. This is, essentially, a delayed refusal. He closes the journal and stands up. 

“Kei, please,” his brother pleads. “I’m sorry. You deserve to have fun, but — you know it’s not in my control. Let’s finish our game, okay? Then maybe think about lunch?” 

Tsukishima nods stiffly, journal held tight against his chest. “Fine. I’ll be right back,” he says, and escapes to his bedroom upstairs. 

His bedroom is more aptly described as a greenhouse with a bed. Its botanical occupants respond to his presence, quivering in a non-existent wind. A friendly string-of-pearls brushes against his arm. He ducks under the fronds of a thriving begonia and stops to check the soil dampness in several pots before he reaches the dresser. On it, a small ivy plant rustles and a greenish brown woodland lizard crawls out. The creature rises on his back legs and tilts his narrow head quizzically. 

“No, Yamaguchi,” Tsukishima says sadly, “It did not go well.” 

The lizard droops and crawls over to give him a consoling pat on the arm. 

Tsukishima smiles weakly and pets his scaly head with a gentle finger. “It’s fine, Yamaguchi.” 

Pointing with his tail, Yamaguchi directs his attention to a small tray on the windowsill where ironweed shoots struggle to take root. One is especially sickly. Tsukishima clicks his tongue, leaves the journal on his bed and lifts the small plant in his palm. With a centering breath, he reaches for the tangle of power in his chest. His magic awakens, tingles in his hands. His hair glows like a struck match. The wilted sprout trembles and curls, heliotropic, towards the silvery light. 

When his hair dims, Yamaguchi scuttles curiously up his leg and onto the sill. He examines the larger, healthier plant with narrowed eyes before giving a thumbs up. 

“Kei?” Akiteru’s voice floats up the staircase. “Do you want to share these strawberries? We can dip them in — oh, where did you move the sugar bowl?” 

Tsukishima rolls his eyes. “Top shelf, blue jar.” 

He leaves the journal on the bed, and returns downstairs. 

Akiteru stays well into the afternoon. They wash and devour a bowl of strawberries and Tsukishima relishes the sweet, cool juices on his tongue. As promised, they return to their chess game. Akiteru has the advantage but Tsukishima hasn’t lost yet. He moves his rook into a position nasty enough to make Akiteru’s face scrunch up in deep thought. 

Tsukishima’s eyes drift, as they tend to do, towards the open window. 

On clear days like this, if he squints, he can almost see the tiled roofs of the kingdom capitol, bright maroon against the blue summer sky. Sometimes on nights when the moon is full he can see the white stone walls and the long white bridge that connects the island city to the mainland. It feels close enough to pinch between his fingers, but when he holds up his hand, he can cover the whole silhouette with a single thumb. One swipe, and he could smudge it away. 

But he doesn’t, even in jest, because if the city was gone it would just be him, in the tower with the no door. With no one left to write him letters, or bring him seeds, or miss him at all. 

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It’s hard to say where things began for the unconscious man. Kuroo Tetsurou is the product of countless questionable decisions. 

Double-crossing the Miya twins is as good a place to start as any. 

A week before the heist, Kuroo meets the twins in a cramped back room of a certain roadside inn. A map of Shiratorizawa and the surrounding woodlands covers the table between the three men. Someone (Osamu) has detailed possible escape routes neatly in blue ink. Someone else (Atsumu) added, in red ink, crude drawings of guards with their pants down. The exaggerated genitalia is an inspired touch, Kuroo thinks. 

“If y’get pursued,” Miya Osamu says, tapping a point on the mainland where various lines intersect, “we’re meetin’ up here.”

Miya Atsumu lazily flips a long knife in his offhand as he leans against the wall, every inch the indolent criminal. “We’ve never been caught.” He catches the knife and slams it into the table. “Ya gonna ruin our perfect record, Kuroo-kun?” 

“My record’s perfect,” Osamu snaps, shoving his brother hard. “Yer the fool always doin’ stupid shit t’ avoid gettin’ arrested. Ya _just_ got outta jail.”

Atsumu rubs his sore shoulder and sneers. “It don’t count if ya put _yerself_ in jail, ‘Samu. That plan worked, too! Omi-kun never saw me comin’ or goin’.” 

Kuroo waves away the tension with an easy smirk. “No need to worry, boys. I always adapt.” 

Kuroo Tetsurou is an orphan, a thief, a frequent subject of wanted posters across the kingdom. He is not a trustworthy person, but he thinks the twins ought to expect that.

The day of the heist, all goes well until they overhear one guard scold his companion so scathingly that Atsumu audibly snickers and fumbles the rope. Kuroo goes crashing into a priceless vase. It takes both twins to hoist him back out, crossbow bolts thunking into the rafters inches from his retreating form. 

The escape from the castle is a narrow, hectic thing. Kuroo tries to be understanding — who could have predicted the _horse?_ — but by the time he reaches the rendezvous point with guards still in pursuit, sweaty and victimized by one too many tree branches, he’s scowling. 

“Do you see this?” He holds up a crumbled wanted poster with his own name printed in large block letters. The caricature is clearly him, down to the impish grin, except that his hair is shown slicked back in an oily mullet. “They just can’t get my hair right!” 

Atsumu winces in sympathy. Osamu wishes for death. 

“This ain’t the time,” he snaps, gesturing to the cliff at their backs. This small hollow in the rocky terrain would be an ideal place to recoup after a successful heist, but instead, they have moments — maybe less — before they are caught and punished. 

“Hoist me up, ‘Samu!” 

Osamu shoves his twin away with a glare that could strip paint. “No way. Yer the fool who can’t keep his trap shut.”

Hoofbeats and shouts grow louder, amplified by the rockface. It’s hard to tell how many guards are in pursuit, but Kuroo knows the answer is _more than enough_. Osamu does too, beckoning impatiently. 

“Hand me the bag,” he orders. “‘Tsumu, give ‘im a boost. Then me, then we’ll get ya. Because yer the strongest, that’s why,” he tacks on, cutting off his twin before he protests.

Kuroo’s calculating gaze flicks between the twins and the nondescript bag in his hand. He doesn’t hesitate to toss it to Osamu and stride over to where the other Miya crouches with his fingers linked. He slots his boot into the cradle of his hand. Miya heaves up; Kuroo overcorrects and reaches out, catching himself against Osamu before scrambling up and — 

“Well, boys, it’s been a real pleasure!” he calls down. 

Atsumu narrows his eyes. Osamu pats his side and swears. Grinning — and firmly of the belief that there is always time to gloat — Kuroo holds up the bag, its leather straps wrapped firmly around his own fist.

With a cheeky salute, he abandons the twins at the dead end cliff. A cacophony of shouts and enraged cries fade into this distance as he jogs deeper into the forest. 

He hasn’t been this far out into the wilderness in a long time, not since his early days out of the orphanage when the whole breadth of the world beckoned and he saw himself a fearless adventurer, beholden to no master. Now he is a decade older and wiser to the way of things. His master is money. Perhaps now, with the treasure in his bag, he will get enough to truly be free. 

Lost in his musings of distant cities, private estates, he doesn’t hear the hoofbeats until it’s almost too late. Be it by luck or fate, he finds a tunnel through the rocks. Through the tunnel, he finds a meadow. In the meadow, he finds a tower. 

A tall, tall tower with no doors and an open window. 

Well then. Kuroo Tetsurou always adapts. 

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Now, the story begins. 

Kuroo wakes up in a forest. 

No, not quite. He blinks scattered phosphenes from his eyes. The forest arranges itself into a sunny, circular room filled with more plantlife than Kuroo has ever seen in a single indoor place. 

His vision clears as an ache settles into the side of his head. It hurts to twist his neck too far to the right. The events of the day return: the heist at dawn, the escape, the flight into the woods, and the final parting glimpse of the Miyas before he ran. That damned persistent horse, the mysterious tower. The glimpse of gold eyes. 

Ah, well. It’s not the first time Kuroo has woken up tied to a chair. At least he’s fully clothed. 

“Pardon the intrusion,” he calls out, licking his dry lips. By appearances, he is alone yet he feels unquestionably observed. He expects someone to speak from behind him, or waltz into his field of vision. He does not expect to hear a person clear their throat from in front of him. 

Against the wall, just to the side of the large window, a boy sits on a stool. He’s the most beautiful boy Kuroo has ever, ever seen. 

“Hey.” He smirks, eyes half-lidded. “How did I miss you?” 

The boy sips his tea. “You might have a concussion. Or you might be an idiot.” 

Kuroo maintains the smolder. “I’ve been called worse.” 

The boy lowers his teacup, glaring from behind round, wire-frame glasses. Gods, he’s stunning - but strange. His pants are too short, his shirt and vest several years out of style and mended many times over. The greys and greens of his outfit soften him. Ah, that’s why Kuroo didn’t see him at first: the boy blends in with the plants surrounding him. Kuroo muses that his apparent captor could climb into a pot, sprout leaves, and be perfectly at home. Leaves, or maybe cactus spines, or something exotic with teeth. 

Or, he thinks as he stares at the boy’s wavy silver hair, a grumpy dandelion. 

Regardless, this is good news to Kuroo. He can handle pretty things. 

“So,” he drawls, “I’m at your mercy, clever captor.” As he speaks, he begins fiddling with the knots around his hands, sliding a finger between the ropes. “How can I win back my freedom? Or do you prefer your men handsome and helple — ouch!” 

Something bites him, tiny claws hooking into his shirtsleeves. A small lizard crawls around his shoulder to sit on the arm of the chair, puffing up menacingly. The boy is on his feet, leveling a frying pan at Kuroo’s face. 

“Don’t struggle! Don’t try to escape,” He begins, then flounders. To Kuroo’s confusion, he flushes coral pink and seems to glare twice as balefully to compensate. “Tell me how you found me. Who sent you? Is Akiteru in trouble?” 

Kuroo reassesses. Perhaps he should feel endangered. The small lump on his skull proves the boy will strike if provoked. On the other hand, it’s hard to feel threatened by a gangly teenager and his pet lizard. Relaxing back into the chair, stretching his legs as much as he can with his ankles bound, he adopts a less flirtatious, much friendlier smile. 

“No one sent me. My being here? Honest mistake. If you would so kindly untie me, I’ll just grab my bag — ”

The bag. 

Kuroo looks around, cranes his neck as far as he can, wincing through the sting in his scalp. The boy’s grin is smug. 

“I hid your bag. You’ll never find it.” 

Kuroo rolls his eyes. “Really? So it’s not in one of these pots?” 

“Half of these species are poisonous,” the boy snaps, crossing his arms. “Fine by me if you want to risk a blistering skin infection. You can’t possibly get uglier.” 

“Okay, ouch. That was uncalled for.” The lizard hisses, digs pointy claws into his arm. Kuroo yelps and tries to shake it off, nearly toppling himself in the process. “Control your gecko, please!” 

The boy intervenes, scooping the lizard onto his shoulder before stepping back out of reach. “Yamaguchi is a woodland lizard.” 

“Semantics,” Kuroo huffs. He narrows his eyes. “What do you want? What’s your angle, kid?” 

“It’s Tsukishima.” 

“Charmed.” Kuroo glances at the silver hair. It’s a fitting name, soft but unshakable. “What’s your angle, Tsukishima?” 

Yamaguchi points to Kuroo, then out the window. Tsukishima’s nose scrunches in distaste. An odd conversation commences — Tsukishima whispers heatedly and if the lizard replies, it’s not in a way Kuroo understands. Finally, Tsukishima scoffs, seemingly resigned. Yamaguchi pokes him in the cheek with his tail. 

“Fine, okay.” Tsukishima turns to Kuroo and points with his cookware. “Are you familiar with the Autumn Moon Festival in Shiratorizawa?” 

Admittedly, Kuroo doesn’t expect this. “Yeah? The food is decent. All the games are rigged, though.” 

“Have you been at the festival when the rampions bloom?” 

“The flower viewings? Not exactly my thing.” He glances at the menagerie of plants. “I could see why _you_ might be interested.” 

The lizard looks smug.Tsukishima pointedly ignores him. “These are my terms,” he says after a pause. “You will escort me safely to Shiratorizawa to attend the Autumn Moon Festival. And then you’ll bring me safely back to this tower. At that point, I will return your belongings.” 

Kuroo sees a few immediate issues with the plan. On an average day, he would jump at the chance to show a pretty boy around the city, but this is not an average day. This is the day he stole from the crown prince. Kuroo does not have an abundance of spare time. “Did you look through my bag? See the poster? I’m not exactly welcome in the City of Swans right now.” 

“So you can evade the law well enough to steal for a living, but you can’t take helpless me to town for one night?” 

Kuroo grits his teeth. Tsukishima lives alone in a tower filled with reportedly poisonous plants and talks to his pet lizard. He’s weird, but the hand that grips the frying pan doesn’t tremble. 

“You don’t seem helpless to me,” Kuroo says, pointedly twitching in his bonds. Startled by the compliment, Tsukishima blushes again. Kuroo will reluctantly admit that he enjoys the sight. With a put-upon sigh, he continues, “Okay, you win. I accept your terms. You gonna untie me?” 

The boy starts forward but catches himself. He frowns. “Not yet. You can stay put until I’m ready, thief.” 

“It’s Kuroo,” he calls after him as he leaves the room. On the table, Yamaguchi sits back on his legs, arms crossed over his pale yellow underbelly. His glare suggests a stern, _I’m watching you._ Kuroo adds ‘guarded by a lizard’ to the ongoing list of weird things he never expected to experience. He glares back and sticks out his tongue. 

Yamaguchi meets his stare and casually licks his own eyeball. 

Kuroo retches. “Gross, okay, please stop.” 

He hears the thump of boots on stairs heralding Tsukishima’s return. The brush of cool, soft fingers against his wrist makes him jerk in his seat. 

“Don’t move or I’ll slice off a finger,” the boy warns. 

“Oooh, scary.” Kuroo rolls his eyes but obeys. 

Tsukishima clicks his tongue. The ropes loosen and fall away. He frees Kuroo’s feet next and then backs away quickly, returning the plain utility knife to his belt. Kuroo is amused to see the frying pan secured on the opposite hip. Massaging the blood back into his wrists, Kuroo stands and stretches. 

“Ready to go, flower boy? Need to leave a note for anyone?” 

Tsukishima shakes his head curtly. “No.” 

“Just you here?” Another unexpected detail. 

“That’s none of your business.” Tsukishima kneels to open a small chest by the window. He lifts out a long, rolled up bundle of rope and wood that Kuroo belatedly identifies as a ladder. It hooks neatly onto sturdy hardware mounted into the stone. With a small heave, Tsukishima tosses it out the window. It thumps audibly down the side of the tower. 

A thought occurs to Kuroo and he looks around to confirm his suspicion. “No doors, huh? You must not get out much.” 

If he wasn’t watching for a reaction, he would have missed the way Tsukishima flinches and covers it up with a disgruntled frown. 

“You first.” He gestures to the window and steps back, out of the way. “I’ll follow.” 

Kuroo chews on the inside of his lip. Realistically, he could overpower Tsukishima. The boy matches him for height but lacks any significant muscle mass. How deadly could these plants be? Kuroo sends one last glance around the tower before his gaze lands on Tsukishima. He’s donned a quilted purple jacket, a serviceable backpack, and a pair of old boots. His hair seems to shimmer in the sunlight. There is dirt under his nails and his eyes are a fierce, fiery gold, brimming with stubbornness and hope. 

The eyes of a boy who knows his heart’s desire and won’t settle for anything less. 

Kuroo sighs. There is only one way he’s getting his stuff back. 

“Well then, Tsukki.” He crossed to the window and peeks out, assessing the climb down. “Let the adventure begin,” he says, and swings a leg over the sill. 

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Tsukishima closes his eyes and swallows against the panic rising in his throat. The sun warms his whole back; he feels the breeze brush against the backs of his watery knees. The rope ladder digs into his palms as his grip goes white-knuckled. He can’t do this. 

He is frozen on the bottom rung. The meadow grass sways a yard below his boots. He is one step away from leaving the tower, and _he can’t do this._

He could change his mind. He could climb back up the ladder and give Kuroo his stolen goods and never speak of this again. He swallows. He can feel Yamaguchi’s concerned stare from his place in his front pocket. 

“Need a hand?” 

Kuroo stands below, tall enough that his ridiculous hair reaches Tsukishima’s knees. The thief’s face is placid but with the feline eyes of someone constantly observing. He’s clearly curious, but it doesn’t feel unkind. 

He offers a large, tanned hand. “You’re almost there.” 

“I’ve got it, thanks.” Tsukishima avoids his gaze, takes a fortifying inhale, and drops. 

His feet hit the ground. He does not catch fire. His skin doesn’t break out. Akiteru does not burst from the bushes in horror. Tsukishima Kei is outside. 

Slowly, he turns his back on the tower and faces the meadow. He observed this scene in all its seasons, across thousands of days, rain and snow and sunshine — and now at last, he is part of the picture. He walks forward, palms outstretched. The wildflowers quiver and reach up to greet his fingers with their fragrant petals. A giggle escapes him. He grew up so close to the sky, but now? He could touch that, too. 

“You’ve never left before.” 

It’s a statement, not a question. Kuroo watches him, one hand on his hip. 

Tsukishima yanks his hands back to his side. “I’m perfectly capable. You won’t have to babysit me.” 

“Escort is just a fancy term for babysitter.” He waves his hands placatingly when Tsukishima glares. “Yikes, message received. Tsukki is a big boy who can take care of himself.” 

Tsukishima huffs and stomps past him, aiming for the open cleft in cliffs surrounding the meadow. “My name is Tsukishima.” 

His escort only shrugs, plucking a piece of sweetgrass and sticking the end in his mouth. He chews as they traverse the short tunnel. When they reach a thick curtain of vines, Kuroo pauses and glances back at him. In the greenish light, he seems especially wild, and Tsukishima briefly questions the sanity of following a strange man into the woods. But then Kuroo grins and sweeps aside the curtain of vines. A firm hand on Tsukishima’s back guides him into the woodlands beyond. 

“Welcome to the world, Tsukishima.” Kuroo laughs, pats his shoulder, and gestures to the north. “Let’s go, city’s this way.” 

Tsukishima hesitates. He takes one last look over his shoulder. In his pocket, Yamaguchi turns his face skyward, tongue flicking happily in the sun. Tsukishima smiles at his small friend, squares his shoulders, and follows Kuroo through the trees.

…

The walk is peaceful for twenty minutes. Birds fly between trees. Tsukishima spies a bright red kind he’s never seen before. The trees are so huge, with their mossy trunks and sprawling canopies. He wants to peer into every den and stop to sketch a cluster of velvety red wood ears, but Kuroo treats the forest like an uninteresting painting and doesn’t slow his pace. 

And then the questions start. 

“You’ve really never left that tower before?” 

“No.” 

Kuroo certainly doesn’t find Tsukishima boring, if the way he walks backwards and leans down to catch the boy’s gaze is any indication. “So...you’ve never been swimming?” 

“I can’t swim,” Tsukishima says offhandedly, then quickly adds, “but it can’t be that hard.” 

His companion chuckles and waves him off. “Sure, sure. Never...gotten drunk? Been dancing? Kissed anyone?” He waggles his eyebrow provocatively. 

Tsukishima looks away, pretending to study the leaves of a maple as they pass beneath it. “Your questions say more about your priorities than mine.” 

The pair reach a wide stream, water blindingly white where it catches the sunlight. It’s shallow enough to see straight down to the smooth, silty riverbed. Kuroo navigates across with little fuss, pausing in his stride with one foot braced on the opposite bank to turn back and offer a hand to Tsukishima. This time, he takes it rather than risk falling in the water, though he shakes off the other man’s grip as soon as he crosses. 

Unfazed, Kuroo falls in step with him, stretching his hands above his head and looking at Tsukishima sidelong. “So, why bother going to this festival if you don’t want to get drunk and dance? You know, make some choices you regret in the morning?” 

Tsukishima ignores him. He is reasonably confident Kuroo is doing the eyebrow thing again. “I’m going to see the rampions bloom. It only happens once a year. I want to bring some fresh samples back to the tower.” 

“And then you’ll return my belongings, and we’ll part ways as good friends,” Kuroo adds. He then goes strangely silent — strange only because he’s been so insistent on chatting until this moment. 

The silence lasts a while. Eventually they reach the edge of a recognizable path carved through the trees. It stretches off in both directions, beaten down by horse and boot and cart. Kuroo strides out of the brush and consults a nearby signpost. Tsukishima is intrigued to see the signs carved with what must be some kind of universal traveler’s shorthand. He’s about to ask what it means when Kuroo speaks. 

“When you go back,” he starts slowly, tone unreadable, “will you ever leave again? Or is this it? One adventure to sate your curiosity?” 

It’s an unexpected line of inquiry. Tsukishima’s shoulders curl forward. The truth sits like a sour candy on his tongue. “It’s a perfectly nice tower,” he deflects. 

Kuroo isn’t fooled. The look he gives Tsukishima, brow furrowed, is more upset than Tsukishima expected. “Tsukki, that’s...really depressing.” 

“Is your life of petty thievery so glamorous, then?” Tsukishima shoots back. “How is rotting in a jail cell any different?” 

Kuroo raises a sharp brow. Belatedly, Tsukishima catches his comparison and flushes red, stubbornly looks away. Wisely, Kuroo doesn’t comment. He simply points to the left and starts walking. Tsukishima follows him in silence. 

|  |   
---|---|---  
  
“This isn’t the way to Shiratorizawa.” 

Damn, Kuroo hoped it would take him longer to notice they were heading west, not north. Biting back a sigh, he wipes the exasperation off his face and spins to shoot Tsukishima a broad grin. 

“Well-spotted! We have a slight detour to make.”

Tsukishima frowns. “The festival is tomorrow.” 

Kuroo falls back to nudge him along with a few light jabs to the arm. “This will be the briefest of pit stops. Thief’s honor.” 

They round a bend in the road and Tsukishima’s protests die. A lopsided building greets them, sinking on its foundation and in need of more than a few repairs. The sign out front says JACKAL & GULL, beneath which are carved creatures that do not resemble jackals or gulls. The shutters are shut tight despite the pleasant fall weather but Kuroo expects the tavern will be occupied with the usual blend of ruffians and thugs. 

And one cat-eyed fence, whom Kuroo very much needs to speak to. 

“Come on!” he says, jovial. “Lunch is on me.” 

“Do you have any money?”

Kuroo’s grin tightens. A minor detail. “A true man of the world never pays for his own meal.”  
  
Tsukishima drags his heels, his frown growing deeper and deeper as his voice grows louder and louder. “I’m not letting you _steal_ our food.” 

Kuroo shushes him. “Now, now, Flowers. No yelling. This is a respectable establishment.”

He throws open the door and ushers Tsukishima inside. He takes no small delight in watching those pretty gold eyes widen in shock. 

The tavern interior is chaotic, crowded, and dim. A huge hearthfire casts the room in orange-limned shadows made more menacing by the people casting them. Kuroo sweeps the room and lets himself relax when he doesn’t spy anyone who wants him dead. Or at least, he amends when he notes where Futakuchi glowers from his seat beside his ursine bodyguard, no one who wants him dead enough to get their hands dirty. 

Conversation halts upon their entrance but a volatile pair at the dartboard quickly divert attention as they begin to argue, loudly. Tanaka draws a knife on Yamamoto; no one bats an eye. Their growls quickly dissolve into raucous laughter, and Tanaka tosses his knife end over end at the bullseyes painted on the wall. Tsukishima watches with a growing look of horror. He jumps when Kuroo slides a hand onto the small of his back and forces him deeper into the room, his own flying to the cast-iron still tucked into his belt. 

“Grab us a table, would ya?” he asks. The unspoken _you can handle yourself_ is not lost on his companion judging by the ferocious scowl that breaks through his fear. 

“Oh, very scary. See, you fit right in.” He nudges him towards some empty tables near the window, away from the knife-throwing hooligans but plenty close to where a group of heavily pierced men are deep in a game of cards. “You eat meat, right? Nevermind, who am I kidding — they don’t serve real meat here. Sit tight!” 

Tsukishima blanches. Kuroo laughs and turns towards the bar. 

A deceptively plain man with ash blonde hair and a beauty mark by too-clever copper eyes greets him with a polite smile. “Kuroo-kun. I’m afraid you just missed Kenma.” 

“What?” That complicates things. “Where did he go?” 

Sugawara shrugs airly and grabs a clean glass, flipping it upright on the bartop. “I think I saw Hinata-kun arrive. Maybe they are still upstairs? I’m sure they wouldn’t object to a visitor. Hinata seemed especially lively today.” 

The thought of exactly what he might find if he walked in on his friend and his friend’s feisty paramor sends a shudder through him. He clears his throat and accepts the glass of nameless but undoubtedly strong liquor from Sugawara. As he sips, he calculates: Kenma is waiting for Kuroo to arrive with his contraband. The stolen goods are currently hidden in a tower in the middle of the woods. Kenma is the best fence in Shiratorizawa, and he only works with Kuroo. That was Kuroo’s strength — the Miyas were strong and clever, but Kuroo has the most important fundamentals of thievery: sticky fingers and a way to sell the goods. 

At least, when his fence isn’t occupied with the only other human in the kingdom he speaks to in complete sentences. 

_Not that he’s doing much talking,_ Kuroo thinks. 

Sugawara interrupts his thoughts when he clears his throat. There’s a newfound tightness around the bartender’s eyes that Kuroo doesn’t trust. 

“No blood on the bartop, please,” he says, tone silky smooth but eyes flashing dangerously. “Keep it civil or take it outside.”

Another pair of eyes burn into the back of his head, radiating such fury Kuroo doesn’t need to turn around to know who is approaching. There is only one person who would be this unhappy to see him. Kuroo grips his glass so hard it creaks as he spins around, a fake smirk pressed into his cheek. 

“Sunarin!” he greets. “How nice to see you. Looking lovely, as usual.” 

Suna Rintarou is not amused. His fox-like face simmers with rage. “You must think you’re hot shit, showing up here the same day you get ‘Samu n’ ‘Tsumu arrested. Backstabbing scum.” 

The tavern quiets again. Kuroo throws back his drink, sucks the alcohol off his teeth and welcomes the hot rush through his blood. Suna Rintarou is nasty and cruel on an average afternoon. Today, his fingers itch towards the collection of knives in his bandolier with a particularly vicious hunger. Kuroo knows exactly what those knives can do. 

“It wasn’t a betrayal.” It kind of was. “We got cornered. I got out. It’s not as complicated as you’re making it out to be.” 

Suna snarls. “I don’t buy it. How did they _both_ get caught?” 

“Rotten luck, Sunarin,” Kuroo shrugs, ignoring the sweat collecting on his forehead. “Osamu-kun’s escape route was compromised. I did the best I could.” 

“So where’s the goods, then? Must have been something priceless, for the guards to be this peeved.” 

“Well.” Kuroo stalls, falters when he notices Tanaka and Yamamoto edging closer, accompanied by their wild friend with the lightning bolts shaved into the side of his head. 

Tanaka shoves his hands in his pocket. “Yeah, I heard ‘bout this job.” 

“How much are ya gettin’ for it, kitty cat?” Yamamoto calls. 

“Surely you’ve earned enough to bail out my friends?” Suna’s grin goes feral and cruel. He withdraws a familiar poster from his pocket and dangles it in Kuroo’s face. Another attempt at his visage greets him, accurate except for his hair, styled in an unattractive center part. 

Kuroo snatches it out of his hand. “Who _makes_ these? I demand a word with their printer.” 

“Enough games!” Suna snaps. A flick of his wrist, and there’s a thin but deathly sharp knife in his hand. “Give up the goods, or give me your head. I’m not feeling picky as to which.” 

A bad energy stirs through the room, the rumblings of a brawl attracting the attention of others previous tucked away in dark corners. Kuroo swallows, mouth dry, and widens his stance. His mind churns. How exactly is he getting out of this one? Suddenly, he remembers the kid, but when he glances toward the tables, they are all empty. Where — 

“Stop!” Tsukishima elbows his way to the front of the crowd, either oblivious or uncaring of the many visible weapons. He stands in front of Kuroo, Yamaguchi curled protectively around the back of his neck, his skillet held up against his chest. “You can’t hurt him.” 

“Oh?” Suna deadpans. “Why not?” 

Kuroo edges his boot forward and kicks Tsukishima in the foot. “Hey, Tsukki, this really doesn’t need to concern you —”

Tsukishima waves him off and remains focused on Suna. “This man is presently under contract as my escort.” 

Of all the terms he could have used. Yamamoto snickers. “I didn’t know you did that kind of work, Kuroo.” 

“He means _bodyguard_ ,” Kuroo corrects loudly. 

Tsukishima’s ears are bright red. “Yes. Bodyguard. He’s contracted to take me to the Autumn Moon Festival. Perhaps you could kindly wait to resolve your dispute later.” 

“Dispute?” Suna seethes. He crowds closer and, to his credit, Tsukishima doesn’t cower, not even when there is a knife pressed threateningly to the soft skin beneath his chin. Sick horror floods Kuroo’s gut when he sees a few drops of red drip down the blade. “Maybe you should keep your pretty little neck out of business that don’t concern you.” 

From his vantage point, Kuroo can see the way Tsukishima’s fist clench behind his back. His shoulders shake, but he doesn’t back down. “It’s — I need Kuroo’s help. I’ve been waiting for this chance for years.” He inhales, breath uneven. “Please. It’s for my birthday.” 

Kuroo resists the urge to hide his face and scream. Not one hardened criminal cares about the sentimentality of birthdays — 

“Hey, hey, hey!” 

An incredulous grin creeps onto his face. He stands corrected. There is exactly one hardened criminal who cares, and his name is Bokuto Koutarou. 

The crowd parts to let him through. Bokuto is big, imposing, with wild hair and an unpredictable temper. He’s a skilled brawler and con man, often seen in the company of a beautiful witch. Everyone, present company included, treads carefully around Bokuto. 

The large man pushes Suna to the side and peers owlishly down at Tsukishima. “It’s your birthday?” 

“Tomorrow?” Tsukishima whispers, then clears his throat. “Tomorrow is my birthday. The day of the festival. Kuroo is taking me there to see the rampions bloom.” 

Bokuto thinks, eyes narrowed. Without warning, his face splits into a wide, beaming grin. “I love that festival! What a great present! Kuroo, I didn’t know you were so thoughtful.” 

“It’s a recent development,” Kuroo says meekly. 

Throwing a thick arm around Tsukishima — Yamaguchi narrowly scrambles back into the safety of his pocket — Bokuto turns him towards the bar where Sugawara watches like an attentive opera house patron. “You should eat something nice and yummy, for your birthday. You’ll come sit with me, right? I go to the Autumn Moon Fest every year, ‘cause Akaashi really likes the night market. I can tell you all the best things to do.” 

Bokuto might have dismissed Suna, but Kuroo hasn’t — he’s ready to duck when Suna throws his knife. It lands in the back wall with a sickening thunk. The smile drops from Bokuto’s face. 

Suna sneers. “Not to interrupt this _moment_ —”

Someone bursts through the door. 

Later, perhaps Kuroo will have a good chuckle over the irony of the situation, but the look on the newcomer’s face sends cold dread down his spine. Fukunaga doesn’t talk much, but he doesn’t need to. The warning in his expression is clear. 

City guards, on the approach. 

The tavern erupts. Kuroo hops the counter and flips up the barrier, urging Tsukishima through. “That’s our cue to leave. Wanted man, remember?” 

“How?” Tsukishima demands. 

Bokuto, expression flipped from exuberance to a fearsome calmness, nods to Sugawara. “Let ‘em out the back.” He turns to Tsukishima and claps him on the shoulder. “We’ll stall the guards. Have fun on your birthday. And make sure Kuroo has some fun too.”

Tsukishima smiles, so warm and grateful it nearly knocks Kuroo over. “Thank you,” he says. 

In the corner, Sugawara lifts a dusty rug, revealing a trap door. With Kuroo’s assistance, they heave it open. A ladder leads down an unlit shaft carved into the dirt. Tsukishima pales but doesn’t balk as he slips down the hole. Kuroo gives Bokuto a grateful smile, then disappears down into the dark. 

|  |   
---|---|---  
  
Tsukishima doesn’t know where he expects the trapdoor to lead, but a cave filled with wine barrels and kegs of sour-smelling beer was admittedly low on his list. A single dim lantern hangs from a hook in the wall. Kuroo removes it and fiddles with the wick raiser until the light grows bright enough to see where the cave tunnels off into the earth. It illuminates the serious fear on the thief’s face. 

Gone are the laughs and jests from their earlier walk. Having your life threatened would do that, Tsukishima thinks faintly, still aware of the stinging cut on his own chin. In the half-light, expression grave and dark, Kuroo at last seems the part of the lawbreaker. 

Tsukishima has never felt so far from home. 

“Come on.” Kuroo gestures with the lantern and leads the way down the tunnel. “It’s a smuggler’s bolthole. There should be another exit. Hurry, the guards aren’t stupid. It won’t take them long to find this.” 

Tsukishima follows, matches his jog as best he can with slow-building panic squeezing his chest. “What will happen to your friend? I — I’m so sorry.” 

Kuroo stops him with a hand around his forearm. “Did you summon the guards?” 

“Of course not!” 

“Then you have _nothing_ to apologize for.” His hand slides down to Tsukishima’s wrist, his grip warm and sure. “Let’s focus on staying out of jail, shall we?” 

A loud crash, like a heavy human in metal armor jumping down a ladder, echoes down the tunnel. Kuroo swears, and they run. 

Lantern light bounces wildly off the tunnel walls. Packed dirt becomes bedrock, gleams with condensation. There are so many twists and turns. Tsukishima glimpses other offshoots, perhaps to confuse intruders. He can’t tell if Kuroo knows the way or is simply guessing blindly. He gets his answer when they hurdle around a corner and meet a dead end. 

“No!” Kuroo shouts. They both launch themselves at the landslide of rocks blocking their way. Kuroo pounds his fists against the stone, feeling around like he hopes his hand will pass through to freedom on the other side. But the stones don’t budge. 

Yamaguchi clings to his jacket, tugging rapidly at his hair. Tsukishima glances back and sees the flickers of other light sources growing closer. 

Kuroo claws at the rocks, digging his fingers into the cracks. The realization that they are well and truly trapped sinks over the pair. Tsukishima gasps for air, his breathing growing heavy, frantic. 

“Hurry, if we — we can—!” 

“Tsukki.” Large hands grab his wrists once more, pulling him back from the unmovable stones. “Stop. It’s fine.” 

“No, it’s not! Don’t be stupid.” He fights Kuroo’s grip, glares up at him, and freezes. 

Kuroo is crying. His smile breaks Tsukishima’s heart. 

“Don’t worry, Flowers,” the thief croaks. “I won’t let them arrest you. Just listen to what they say and you’ll be safe.” 

Heat swells behind Tsukishima’s eyes. His hands shake in Kuroo’s grip. “I’m not giving up.” 

Kuroo sniffs and laughs in disbelief. “You’re something else, kid.” 

Before Tsukishima can respond, Yamaguchi yanks on his hair so hard he shrieks. Tsukishima cranes his neck to glare at his friend. Yamaguchi points frantically. Tsukishima follows his claw to the ceiling. Near the top of the landslide, where the rocks meet the tunnel’s roof, a small brown tree root curls through the crack. 

Desperate hope tears through his chest. He’s never attempted to use his magic like this before. He grows green life, restores green life, but never beckoned it to his aid. He thinks of how his favorite plants curled towards him, how the wildflowers in the meadow sought his touch like the sun. 

“Lift me up.” 

Kuroo blinks. “Pardon?” 

“Do you trust me?” A beat, and then a nod. Tsukishima yanks the lantern out of his grasp and tosses it off to the side. “Then lift me up. And don’t let go.” 

Kuroo hoists him skyward, strong arms folding around his thighs. Tsukishima braces a hand on Kuroo’s shoulder and stretches his torso, his arm, his hand. Commanding shouts and muffled orders to show themselves, stand down, drop their weapons echo louder and louder. His fingers curl around the tree root just as guards round the far end of the tunnel. 

Blinding silver light explodes through the darkness. Roots coil around his hand and slither down his arm. With a mighty rumble, more and more tendrils punch down through the topsoil, raining clods of dirt onto their heads. Tsukishima hears Kuroo yell and feels when he buries his face against Tsukishima’s stomach. He doesn’t let go.

Several guards clear the lights from their eyes in time to see a massive cocoon, broken only by thin gaps where fragments of impossibly white light shine through the woven roots. With a final roar of the ever-shifting earth, the cocoon vanishes upwards, spiriting its cargo away.

…

“Please don’t freak out.” 

Tsukishima sits up and blows his bangs out of his face. Yamaguchi trembles in his lap. Gently, Tsukishima lifts up his small friends to check for any bruises or wounds. Nearby, Kuroo sprawls on his ass, dirt in his hair and scattered loosely across his shoulders. He stares at the large tree. There is a huge hollow in the middle, rotted out by mites and dampness and disease. Moments ago, that same tree heaved them up like a bad bite of bread. Kuroo stares at the tree, and then he stares at Tsukishima as if this is his first time seeing him. 

“I’m not freaking out,” he says faintly. Tsukishima scoffs; that is clearly a lie. “Why would I freak out? This happens to me every day.” 

“We should move,” Tsukishima suggests as he stands up, brushing twigs and dead leaves off his coat. “It would be wise to put more distance between us and those guards.” 

They don’t speak as they pick their way through the woods. Time must pass differently when you travel by tree; it’s nearly sunset now. They find a river as dusk wanes to bluish evening and follow it north. Kuroo perks up — he seems to recognize where they are — but doesn’t say anything beyond confirming that they are a good distance from the tavern. Tsukishima steals glance after glance at his companion, comparing this quiet Kuroo to the Kuroo who thought his time as a free man was over. He’s not sure what to make of it. His hands shake — it’s adrenaline, he assures himself. He’s still waiting for the rush to fade. 

When they find a dry, secluded place to sleep for the night, Kuroo sets to work building a small fire. Tsukishima sheds his backpack and forages in the nearby bushes with Yamaguchi. He returns with a large handkerchief filled with berries, mushrooms, and wild nuts. 

“It’s all safe to eat,” he promises, spreading it out by the fire. He notes the way Kuroo side-eyes the mushrooms. “And nothing hallucinogenic. But if you wanted something like that, I could find it.” 

That startles a laugh out of Kuroo, who waves him off. “I’ll pass. Think I’ve seen enough unbelievable things for one day.” 

Tsukishima sits down, back against a large, mossy log. “I want to tell you the truth.” 

“You don’t have to,” Kuroo says as he takes his own seat nearby, running a hand through his hair. It snags and he winces. “Shit, ouch.”

Tsukishima scoots closer without thinking and takes Kuroo’s hand in his own. His fingernails are split, blood crusting in his cuticles. Most likely from clawing at the rocks. One nail is an unpleasant greenish-yellow, the skin around his knuckle stiff and red. Tsukishima brushes down his fingers, carefully prodding. “Nothing’s broken.” He hesitates, chews on his lip. “There’s a reason I could never leave the tower. I can show you. If you want.” 

He braces for dismissal. To his surprise, Kuroo cradles both of their hands in his uninjured one and meets his gaze without judgment or suspicion. “Show me.” 

“Okay.” 

Closing his eyes, Tsukishima reaches inwards for the bright tangle of magic. It’s no less brilliant or lively, even for having summoned an entire tree. He feels the heat on his neck as his curls swell with light. He places his free hand on top of Kuroo’s and holds his injured fingers like one would hold a bird. He breathes in, and feels soft warm life rush up through his feet. He breathes out, and his palms tingle. 

When he pulls away, Kuroo’s hand is as good as new, and the grass beneath Tsukishima’s feet is the brittle brown of death. Silver shimmers drift off of his hair and scatter like pollen into the evening dusk. 

Kuroo stares, slack jawed in wonder. He doesn’t move his hand. 

Years worth of secrets climb up Tsukishima’s throat and this time, he doesn’t swallow them back. 

“I’ve always been able to do that. Since I was little. Plants respond to me. I can make them grow, and I can also...conduit their life force into humans. Father and Akiteru feared those who would take advantage. There are many powerful people who would do dangerous things for eternal health.” 

“Tsukki.” Kuroo sounds pained. “Going back — is staying stuck in that tower any better?” 

The question sinks into his stomach. Tsukishima laughs, but it’s a brittle sound. “Maybe not. I guess I’ve never had a reason to want freedom. Akiteru brought me whatever I asked for.” 

Kuroo lowers their hands to rest where their knees are inches apart. “What changed?” 

His eyes light up. “The field journal.” 

Finally freeing his hands — and shoving aside the observation that it felt surprisingly nice to be held in that manner — Tsukishima drags over his backpack and digs out the plain leather bound journal. Cracking it open across his lap, he flips slowly through its pages. Kuroo listens, attentive and observant, as he explains, “I found this four summers ago, in a crate of books from Akiteru. I read it cover to cover a dozen times over. I loved reading the observations on platlife. I used to dream of collecting my own specimens. But then I realized I would never discover anything new if I couldn’t leave. So I settled for badgering Akiteru to bring me everything already written down. If I could collect silver rampion, and make it bloom back at the tower…that would be the final piece.” 

Kuroo hums, thoughtful. Calloused fingers trace along the illustration of a camellia blossom. “What will you do then?” 

“I don’t know,” Tsukishima muses. It’s easier to admit than he expected. “I’ll need a new dream, I suppose.” 

They share a brief, companionable silence before Kuroo looks skyward and sighs. “I never dreamed of being a thief, of stealing from crown princes. Well, I mean.” He pointedly clears his throat. Tsukishima lets it slide; the details of Kuroo’s crimes don’t seem important anymore. “In the orphanage, I dreamed of exploration. I wanted to buy a boat, or a horse. Travel around, trade goods and meet people for a living.” 

He sighs again, scrubbing a hand across the back of his neck. He looks youthful then, not like a stranger and not like a thief, but a young man with a good heart. “Just me and where I wanted to go next.” 

Tsukishima smiles and nudges Kuroo’s boot with his own. 

“I like that Kuroo,” he says softly. “He seems nice.” 

Kuroo scoffs. “Tsukki, I’m _always_ this nice.” 

His earnest expression — Tsukishima laughs, full and loud, straight from his chest. “I’ll believe that when I see it!” 

Kuroo coughs, suddenly very occupied with his healed hand, flexing and relaxing his fingers. “Well, I still have a few days to prove myself, then. Can we eat now? I’m starved.” 

The evening passes pleasantly, the journal propped between their knees and a humble picnic spread before them. Tsukishima points out all his favorite illustrations. Kuroo tosses berries into the air and catches them in his mouth. Yamaguchi crawls across their arms, tries to sneak bites of food away. He makes a game of crawling through Kuroo’s hair just to hear him fuss. 

When Tsukishima finally drifts off, his mouth hurts from smiling. He doesn’t feel the gentle fingers brush his bangs aside. 

|  |   
---|---|---  
  
Kuroo wakes up in a forest. 

An actual forest, this time. And this time, his eyes go straight to Tsukishima. 

If he seemed at home in his tower greenhouse, in the wild woods he is a prince in repose. Early sun glimmers through his hair, dewdrops freckle his cheeks. Tiny bold crocuses sprout between his fingers where his hands rest beside his face. Without his glasses he appears younger, even more faelike, unsullied by mortal hands. Kuroo thinks about his soft hair, the swoop of his heart when he caressed him just once last night. He wants to touch his cheek. But he doesn’t.

Instead he stands and stretches, twists the kinks out of his spine. Fire still smolders. Kuroo begins to kick dirt over the embers. They’ll need to start walking soon if they are going to make reasonable time. 

He freezes when he hears a familiar, menacing neigh. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he groans. 

Not one breath later, a buckskin horse, eighteen hands and fearsome, jumps out of the bushes. He’s barrel-chested and menacing with black points and a mane that falls unkempt around clever, enraged eyes. He whinnies, ear-splittingly loud, and stamps the grass in triumph. 

Tsukishima bolts upright, fumbling for his glasses. “Kuroo?” 

Kuroo leaps between the sleepy boy and their unexpected visitor. The snorting horse eyes Kuroo with more intelligence and fire than a domesticated animal should have, even a creature trained for war. 

Behind him, Tsukishima clears the sleep from his voice. “Is that a royal horse? Is that a swan medallion, on his livery?” 

Kuroo ignores him, attention focused entirely on his nemesis. Without breaking eye contact, he swoops down and scoops up the frying pan where it leans against the log. “Stay back! You can’t arrest me, you’re a _horse!”_

The horse chuffs, clearly amused that Kuroo would ever think the limitations of species could stop him. 

Kuroo tenses as he sees the muscles in those powerful flanks twitch. The horse dives forward, teeth snapping together inches from Kuroo’s face. Kuroo swats the beast back with the frying pan, scrambling for a plan — could he lure it away? Could Tsukishima distract it, or make a tree...eat it? Or something? 

He doesn’t expect to hear Tsukishima laugh. 

“Have you been chasing this idiot around the kingdom since yesterday?” The giggling boy looks at the horse in fond amusement, as though insulting Kuroo is something they shared together often. Of course this situation is amusing for the one not in danger. “Such dedication. I’m not sure he’s worth all the trouble, personally.” 

Kuroo squawks — is he offended? The horse blinks at Tsukishima, blows out hard through his lips, and then has the gall to droop his head and look innocent. 

Kuroo doesn’t buy it, inching close enough to Tsukishima to nudge him with the frying pan. “Here, you distract it, I’ll grab the gecko.” 

“Yamaguchi is a lizard.” 

“Not my point — that horse wants to kill me, Tsukki!” 

“This sweet guy?” Tsukishima strolls over, reaching out to let the horse sniff his open palm. The horse perks up, prances in place and lets Tsukishima scratch beneath his bridle and pet at his flanks. “I think you’re the one giving him trouble.” 

“Really? _Really_?” Kuroo huffs and crosses his arms. “I refuse to befriend the horse.” 

Tsukishima shoots him a playful smirk. “That’s fine.” He glides his hands across the saddle, thumbs dirt of a brass nameplate stitched into the side. He leans closer to read the engraving. _“Morisuke_ and I will be friends without you. How does that sound, Morisuke? You can be my second best friend, after Yamaguchi.” 

The lizard waves from Tsukishima’s shoulder. Morisuke politely sniffs, then glares questioningly at Kuroo. 

“Kuroo is my bodyguard,” Tsukishima explains, stroking Morisuke’s cream-colored nose. “I need him to show me safely to the city. It would be very noble of you to stop chasing him so I can enjoy my birthday. Which is today,” he adds pointedly with a pretty, pretty smile. 

Is it warm this morning? Kuroo’s mouth feels a little dry, watching Tsukishima’s sideways grin and the delighted light in his golden eyes. He suddenly wonders what it would be like if Tsukishima smiled at him with such fondness. 

Morisuke visibly pouts, digs his hoof petulantly into the ground, but eventually relents. He swivels his head towards the river, as if to say, _that way._ Kuroo wants to point out that _he_ knows that too, but keeps his pettiness behind his teeth. 

Tsukishima dons his pack and follows after the horse. “Let’s go, Kuroo.” 

“Right behind you,” Kuroo mutters, tucking the frying pan into his belt. 

…

When they reach the City of Swans, the Autumn Moon Festival is in full swing. 

As they meander across the long bridge connecting the island city to the shore, Kuroo explains: there are games and puppet shows and food all afternoon. Once night falls, the market opens; there is live music, dancing, and drink. Tsukishima holds tight to the side of Morisuke’s saddle, leaning his weight gratefully against his flank. The horse gives Kuroo a series of increasingly smug, toothy grins. 

When they reach the main gate, Tsukishima stops and looks at Kuroo. 

“My family lives here,” he murmurs. “Someone might recognize me.” 

“In this crowd? What are the odds of that?” 

Tsukishima frowns. “That’s what they say in novels right before the heroes are recognized. I should hide my hair. We need to hide yours too. And take off your vest; it’s too gaudy.” 

“You’re overthinking this,” Kuroo grumbles as Tsukishima walks away, drawn to a vendor near the gate. 

Stripping out of his vest, which is a perfectly stylish shade of apple red, Kuroo fusses with his shirt, plain and white in comparison. He looks drab — which he supposes is the point. Just another boy from the country. Morisuke finds the sight of him amusing enough that he allows Kuroo to stash his vest with the rest of their belongings. 

“Here,” Tsukishima says as he returns. He holds out something bright and colorful. “Will these work?” 

Kuroo accepts the offering, and only barely masks his surprise. It’s a flower crown, woven of supple thin saplings and lush red maple leaves. Small, purple bachelor’s buttons, acorns painted gold, and a sprig of blackberry complete its splendor. He will blend in with every other young person showing their appreciation for the harvest. He sits it gingerly on his head, resigned to smell like a blackberry pie for the rest of the day — and then turns to look at Tsukishima, and loses his breath. 

Tsukishima’s flower crown is a pastel dream: an elaborate weave of purple sage and asters, clematis and white candytuft, with delicate touches of amaranth to add richness and shadow. It sits on his silver curls and turns his eyes to soft citrine, his stubborn mouth to rosy quartz.

He's beautiful.

The silence stretches, and Tsukishima’s mouth hitches down. “Maybe mine is a bit much?” he asks, lifting his hands as though to remove it.

Kuroo snatches his hands. “No! It looks great. No one will pay attention to your face. Great idea.”  
  
From his perch on the saddle horn, Yamaguchi laughs soundlessly. Morisuke rolls his eyes and hacks a wad of spit onto the cobblestones. 

“Ready?” Kuroo offers his arm to Tsukishima. The boy blushes, and accepts. 

His eyes glitter. “Yes.” 

Laughter and songs fill the air as they wander through the streets. They pass through two plazas filled with elaborate ring tosses, play archery with toy bows and arrows, tests of strength and wit. Local shops prop open their doors; vendors wander the crowds selling sticky buns and mulled cider. Kuroo keeps Tsukishima’s arm locked firmly in his and lets him explore as he pleases. 

In another life, they would be just another pair of sweethearts out of a day of tender looks and inside jokes. Instead, Kuroo still knows so little about Tsukishima, but what he does know is important. Tsukishima is brave. Tsukishima exposed his secret to preserve their freedom. Tsukishima can charm criminals and deranged horses. Tsukishima knows too many cute, useless facts about plants. 

Tsukishima drinks in every sight and color and song and smell. He asks a dozen questions and argues over the strangest details. 

Tsukishima soaks in light and life, and Kuroo soaks in Tsukishima. 

And falls, and falls. 

The day bleeds by too quickly. As the sky pinkens, colorful lanterns light up the streets. Tsukishima grows restless, glancing anxiously at the large golden moon where it rises above the lake. His eyes bounce from the sky to the dark, leafy vines growing across almost every maroon-tiled roof. 

He tugs on Kuroo’s sleeve for the third time in the last ten minutes. “When?” 

“Soon,” Kuroo teases, popping another candied almond into his mouth. “The moon has to rise first.” 

Tsukishima does not rise to the offered bait, choosing instead to worry his thumbnail between his teeth. “We need a good place to watch.”

Swallowing the last of his almonds, Kuroo crumples the wax paper and slips it into the nearest trash bin. Carefully, he tugs Tsukishima’s hand away from his mouth and laces their fingers together, ignoring the way his heart somersaults through his chest. 

“I think I can get us front row seats.”  
  
Together, they slip through the crowds. Kuroo leads them along the main road that spirals up the hill into wealthier neighborhoods. Through his youth prowling around the city, he filed away rooftops with easy access to and from the street. He guides them to one such rooftop, the outbuilding of a quiet estate with negligible private security. No one pays them much attention — not on the night of the Harvest Moon, where young lovers often slip away to celebrate alone. 

Kuroo doubts that sheltered Tsukishima knows that particular detail. Perhaps selfishly, he keeps it to himself. 

“Sorry, pony, this is where you sit and wait like an obedient pack mule,” Kuroo drawls as they come to a stop along the back wall of the property. 

Tsukishima snickers, and pats Morisuke fondly on the nose. “Be right back,” he says to Yamaguchi, who gives them an encouraging salute. 

Hands on his hips, Kuroo studies their assent. Iron lattice and decorative brickwork should make for easy handholds. “Can you manage?” he teases.

Tsukishima doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward without a hand to nudge him. “Yes.” 

“Perfect,” Kuroo says, softer than he means to. “You first. I’ll follow.” 

|  |   
---|---|---  
  
The moon climbs higher in the sky, and his heart climbs higher in his throat. 

At Kuroo’s bidding, Tsukishima ascends the wall onto a small flat gap between two eaves. The ceramic tiles are still warm from the autumn sun, the gables on their side thick with rampion vines. It could be one prolific plant, or it could be a dozen. Tsukishima yearns to touch, to drag his fingers along the soft fuzzy shell of their closed buds — but he curls his fingers tight. 

He left the tower, confronted thugs, escaped the law, and now sits within arms reach of his dream, but he _can’t._

Kuroo plops onto the roof next to him, gangly legs stretched out as he leans against the slanted roof. Tsukishima settles with his legs drawn up to his chest. 

“What if...it’s not everything I hoped it would be?” he asks, picking his words carefully. He has no regrets, only fears. 

Kuroo shrugs, freeing his hair from his festive crown. “Then you find a new dream, remember?” 

Tsukishima rolls his eyes, but there’s no derisive heat. Their silence is comfortable; he watches Kuroo dismantle his crown into piles around his lap. Except for the blackberries, which he eats with happy, carefree hums. 

Chin propped on his knees, Tsukishima watches the moon, the rampion, and Kuroo — the wayward thief in his loose white shirt, his dirty boots and his wild hair. His easy grin and his cunning eyes. Tsukishima thinks back to the day before. He turned around in the tower kitchen and without warning, there was Kuroo. It feels distant, like another time. 

“Kuroo,” he says, “I have something for you.” 

His companion perks up. “Yesmf?” His response is muffled by the blackberries pouched in his cheek. 

Tsukishima reaches into his coat pocket for the object he slipped there before leaving his pack with Morisuke. He opens his palm and holds out a small, ceremonial dagger in a well-oiled black sheath. 

Kuroo goes still. 

“This was in your pack, when I searched it back at the tower,” Tsukishima explains, though he feels dumb for doing so. There is no possibility Kuroo doesn’t recognize the dagger. “It was the only thing in there nice enough to be stolen goods.” 

He holds it out to Kuroo, hilt first. The thief takes it numbly, weighs it in his palm. It’s a finely made knife — the hilt wrapped in silver wire and capped with a blue-green gemstone that swirls with streaks of bronze when exposed to the sun. 

“Why are you giving this to me now?” Kuroo asks, voice low. 

“That was our arrangement. Now you have it back. Sell it, or toss it. Do whatever you want.” Tsukishima looks away, stares unseeing at the stone beneath him. “I don’t want it hanging between us.” 

The unspoken plea: _I want you to stay because you choose this, too._

Kuroo unsheathes the blade. The dagger is small, maybe the length of his hand, and delicately curved. Tsukishima wonders if the days before this one feel distant to him too. Does the heist feel like another month, another year, even though he could look over his shoulder and see the very castle he robbed stretching towards the stars? 

“You keep it.” 

Tsukishima’s attention jerks back to Kuroo, who offers him the blade, safely put away. “What?” 

“It’s not important anymore. Consider it a souvenir.” He winks, grin curling and feline. “Something to remember me.”

Tsukishima hesitates, and then reaches out and curls Kuroo’s fingers back around the hilt. “Give it to that Sunarin guy,” he says with finality. “Maybe he won’t make good on his promise to kill you.” 

“Maybe,” Kuroo muses thoughtfully. He frowns, but tucks the dagger into his belt, hidden beneath his shirttails. 

Together, they watch the moon rise. The last few fireflies of summer brave the chill. Tsukishima spies the first golden visitor winking through the air. Grinning, he holds out his finger. The small bug settles on his knuckle, not much heavier than a whisper of air. 

“My name is Kei,” he says, voice cracking. Kuroo’s eyes snap to his. Tsukishima clears his throat and starts over. “My given name is Kei.” 

He holds out his finger. Kuroo stretches his own and meets in the middle distance between them. The firefly crawls onto Kuroo’s finger, flickering like a heartbeat. 

“Tetsurou,” Kuroo whispers back. “Kuroo Tetsurou.” 

Tsukishima’s grin widens. Before he can speak, a shift in color catches his eye, and he gasps. On the tiles just above Kuroo’s shoulder, a rampion unfurls its petals. 

Heart thrashing in his chest, Tsukishima jerks around, watching wide-eyed as the rooftop around them comes to life. One by one, petals peel apart. The pistils glow blue in the moonlight while the tiny white stamen shine, planetary amongst the darker blue petals. Their scent is heady and sweet, so achingly familiar. 

The memory returns to him in a jolt. The rampions smell like a letter written on heavy cream paper, stored in a box beneath his bed. The letter is signed to Kei from his mother. It is the only letter from his mother Tsukishima has ever received. 

Kuroo’s hand rubs up his arm, guiding Tsukishima to face him. “You’re crying, Flowers.” 

Tsukishima swipes his palm across his cheeks. “They’re so beautiful. Have you ever seen something so beautiful?” 

Kuroo’s gaze searches his face, drags from chin to forehead and lands back on his eyes. “Yeah, I have.” 

Speechless, Tsukishima stills. The space between them feels fragile. With an artisan’s care, Kuroo smoothes the back of his fingers along the side of Tsukishima’s neck. When Tsukishima swallows, he can feel the weight of his touch. 

“I’ve never been kissed,” he croaks. 

Hope gleams in Kuroo’s gaze. “You interested in changing that?” 

“Please.” Tsukishima leans forward, and Kuroo meets him halfway. Their mouths meet in a garden of silvery blue. 

Kuroo’s lips are soft. He slips his hand behind Tsukishima’s head and keeps him steady as he mouths tenderly at his lips. When he pulls away, Tsukishima feels cracked open and alive; another glowing bud amongst many. 

This close, he can see the faint scatter of ochre freckles along Kuroo’s nose. He leans forwards to kiss them. Kuroo’s breath hitches. The hand on his head draws him back to his warm, blackberry mouth. 

Tsukishima is new to kissing, but Kuroo is an excellent teacher. 

He guides Tsukishima slowly onto his back but doesn’t crowd him; instead, he slides down on his side so they can face each other, knees tucked and tangled together. The flower crown slips sideways off Tsukishima's head, making him giggle and sneeze when a stray flower pokes his nose. Kuroo sets it somewhere above their heads, buries a hand in his uncovered curls, and kisses him, and kisses him. He kisses Tsukishima until his world is nothing beyond the sanctuary of moonlit flowers and the boy who brought him there. 

“Trespassers! On the roof!” 

The peace shatters. 

Tsukishima sits up, but his shoulders catch on a rampion vine. Startled, he kicks more vines off his arms and shoulders. Without realizing it, he had begun to weave a canopy above them. A blanket of blossoms between them and the world. 

“Shit, _shit.”_ Kuroo hastily dusts pale blue petals off his sleeves and climbs to his feet, only to immediately drop back to a crouch. “Someone called the guards.” 

Tsukishima is already shoving him towards the back ledge. “Go, go! Morisuke?” he hisses over the edge, and gets an anxious knicker in response. 

They half climb, half tumble down to the street. Morisuke waits, clearly agitated by the approaching guards. No one can ignore the conflict of interest. Kuroo goes palpably rigid beside him, like he anticipates fighting off their newest companion. 

Out on the main street, the clamor grows louder. Tsukishima thinks quickly. They have very little time. 

Throwing his arms around Morisuke’s neck, he buries his face in his coarse black mane. “Please, please get Kuroo out of here,” he begs, squeezing tightly. “Please.”

A hand touches his shoulder. Tsukishima lets go and spins around. “Kuroo, get on the horse.” 

Kuroo’s expression is fierce and sad. “I’m not leaving you,” he says thickly. 

“I will be fine. I’m just a dumb, nameless kid,” Tsukishima insists. “Guards don’t like you, remember? Just...be nice to Mori. I’ll find you later.” 

“Kei, please — ” 

“Get on the horse, Tetsurou.” 

“Shit,” Kuroo growls. He grabs his face and kisses him, deep and desperate. Then he pulls away and swings into the saddle. 

When Tsukishima reaches out to Yamaguchi, the lizard clings to the saddle horn and shakes his head — _I’ll protect them until you find us._ The rush of gratitude lasts only moments as Kuroo wheels Morisuke around to face the opposite, shadowed end of the alley. With one final, anguished look, they break into a gallop and slip out of sight just before a patrol of the city watch spills into the other side of the corridor, light of their torches jagged and harsh against the wall. 

Tsukishima stands alone and takes a steadying breath. He’s just a dumb, nameless kid. 

Until he isn’t. 

_“Kei?”_

Shocked into silence, Tsukishima slowly turns around and comes face to face with his older brother. 

|  |   
---|---|---  
  
In a windowless room in the city jail, Miya Atsumu leans back in his chair and smirks. 

“Knew ya’d come see me eventually, Omi-kun,” he coos. “Why’d ya make me wait so long?” 

The captain of the watch greets him with a disinterested glare over the top edge of the black cloth tied around the lower half of his face. It matches his black eyes, and his black curls, and the other black cloth Sakusa Kiyoomi uses to wipe his hands after he shuts the door. It’s too somber for Atsumu’s taste, but it works on a guy like Sakusa. 

“What information do you have?” Sakusa asks, frigid as always. “It must be extremely compelling if you insisted on dragging me all the way from the castle to hear it.” 

Atsumu scoffs. “Ya can kiss Ushiwaka’s ass later, Omi-Omi.” 

“You will not speak of your prince like that again,” Sakusa warns. 

“Sure, sure.” Atsumu sighs flippantly. “Do ya want t’ catch Kuroo Tetsurou or don’t’cha?” 

Sakusa is silent, searching his face for the lie. Atsumu tilts his chin playfully and lets him look his fill. 

“Heard ya almost had ‘im,” he remarks. 

“Kuroo Tetsurou is believed to be hiding in the city. He was spotted four days ago trespassing on private property.” 

Atsumu hums, digging at his gums with his tongue. “Who was he with?” 

Those dark, dark eyes flash. “Why do you assume he was with someone?” 

Bingo. “Kuroo Tetsurou could be long gone. No need t’ stick around here. Even when th’ plan went sideways, kitty cats always land on their feet. If Kuroo’s still lurkin’, someone or somethin’ is keepin’ his attention.” 

Sakusa’s eyes narrow. He regards Atsumu for a long stretch of silence, during which Atsumu gleefully watches the pieces click together in his head. 

“Yer welcome,” he says, more snide than gracious. “Just stick yer eyes on whatever pretty thing is distractin’ Kuroo. He’ll show up.” 

“If you are correct,” Sakusa says, “his ‘pretty thing’ will board a boat to Seijoh tomorrow morning, according to the manifest submitted today. They depart the harbor on the dawn tide.” 

Miya Atsumu laughs, full-bellied, rattling his chains. “Sounds like ya know where t’ find Kuroo Tetsurou.” 

“Hmm.” Sakusa levels him a look, the kind that Sakusa thinks are impossible to decipher but Atsumu knows to mean that he has done something unexpectedly impressive. “This does not guarantee your release.” 

“Me? Leave? Nah, Omi- kun. Ya’d miss me too much.” 

Sakusa scowls and leaves Miya in his cell. He has one last rat to clean off the streets. Tsukishima Kei will help him do it. 

|  |   
---|---|---  
  
In novels, when the plot reaches a moment of drama or conflict, the weather often reflects the mood of the protagonists. 

If this was that sort of story, the morning of Tsukishima Kei’s hastily scheduled departure from Shiratorizawa would dawn bleak and grey. Miserable fog would choke the air, press against the skin, and hide all sight of the sun. 

Instead, the morning is clear and lovely, rich with birdsong and crisp, refreshing breezes off the water. It’s the prettiest fall morning, yet Tsukishima walks towards the boat in stiff solemnity. He hasn’t smiled in five days. Five days felt like an eternity. 

Beside him, Akiteru eyes him with distrustful concern. Tsukishima has broken the rules that govern Akiteru’s world, and for that reason he is now an object of suspicion. “We aren’t walking to the gallows, Kei. You don’t have to be so grave.” 

Akiteru makes a lot of observations like that, all of which Tsukishima meets with the same cold response. “I want to go back to the tower.” 

Anything to get out of the city. 

“We’ve discussed this,” Akiteru says patiently. “The best thing to do is go join Father and Mother at the house in Seijoh.” 

This is an argument Tsukishima has heard many times in the last five days. Father and Mother hardly use the estate here in Shiratorizawa. If both Tsukishima sons joined them in Seijoh, they could finally sell the estate. Akiteru sent a letter ahead to explain the circumstances of their arrival. Tsukishima suspects he wants to give Father time to make appropriate arrangements for his wayward son. 

“I suggested school for you,” Akiteru reminds him. “Private tutors. And a much larger greenhouse. Seijoh is famous for its botanists.” 

He looks expectantly at Tsukishima. He is eager for praise, for the relief of Tsukishima’s approval. It brings Tsukishima a sliver of cold, cruel pleasure to deny him. No prospect could excite him, not books or tutors or the largest greenhouse in the world. It would just be a bigger, prettier jail. 

The ship’s captain steps down the gangplank to greet them, a weathered and grizzled man who introduces himself as Ukai. Akiteru withdraws a stack of documents from his coat and steps aside to sort out the final details of their departure. A deckhand scurries past and picks up Tsukishima’s single suitcase, carrying it with them onto the ship. 

Heavy-hearted, Tsukishima turns back to look one last time at the city that was never his home, but held his happiest memory. 

All along the rooftops, rampion lies dark green and dormant. He can still see the soothing blue light if he closes his eyes. 

“Kei, are you ready?” 

No. “Yes.” 

_“Tsukki!”_

He nearly trips. Fear and hope rattle his bones. He looks over his shoulder and sees many things: Kuroo, racing down the dock. Behind him, in pursuit, is Morisuke. Between the horse, guards in silver armor. 

Guards? 

Akiteru grabs his arm before he can react. “Don’t move, Kei. The guards will take care of it.” 

The pieces of this horrible picture click into place: this is a trap, springing its jaws around Kuroo. Tsukishima is the bait. 

Kuroo slows to a fast, charged stride as he nears the brothers. His expression is serious, shoulders squared like he is about to confront Akiteru and negotiate for Tsukishima’s freedom. 

Foolish, beautiful idiot. 

From behind a stack of nearby crates, a man in a black half-mask emerges, longsword in hand. “Kuroo Tetsurou, by order of the prince, stand down!” 

Several things happen at once. 

Kuroo’s eyes widen at the sight of the armed man. His face contorts in rage and fear. Reaching behind him, he withdraws a jeweled dagger. The gemstone on its hilt blinks distractingly in the sun. 

A guard on the approach, a young recruit with blunt bangs and cheeks still round with youth, points and cries out, “Suspect armed!” 

A guard beside him hefts up his crossbow, and doesn’t hesitate to shoot. 

Kuroo stumbles forward, eyes wide in confusion. A dark red stain begins to bleed through the front of his shirt. 

Tsukishima screams. 

Ripping out of Akiteru’s grasp, he runs forward. The masked guard roars orders to his men. Somewhere, a horse shrieks in anger. 

Kuroo falls forward to his hands and knees. Tsukishima catches him as he slumps to the side. The crossbow bolt in his back is a jarring, violent sight. Tsukishima’s shaky hands reach out to touch along the edges of the wound and come away slick and red. 

“No, no, no no _no no,_ Tetsurou,” he moans, voice raw with horror. 

Kuroo’s voice cuts through the din in his head. 

“Kei,” he spits weakly. “Don’t go back inside. In the tower. No more.” 

“I’m going to heal you. Stay still.” 

On his lap, Kuroo convulses. His coughs splatter blood across Tsukishima’s lap. He shakes his head, bats away Tsukishima’s hand. “No. Not safe. If you heal me, they’ll all see. Don’t go back, don’t go back.” 

Tsukishima’s eyes go blurry and hot with tears. “Don’t ask to choose between your life and mine!” 

He tries to stroke Tsukishima’s cheek, but his touch is off, and he smears red down his neck instead. “Don’t go back. Be free, K-Kei.” He struggles for air, his gasps wet and broken. Kuroo’s smile is almost serene, a horrible contrast to the immense pain in his eyes. 

“My mos’ beautiful thing w’ you.” 

Tsukishima’s heart shatters. The morning is beautiful, but Kuroo goes still. All the chaos beyond the tragedy between them goes quiet. 

Kuroo asked him to choose, but there isn’t much of a choice to make. 

Tsukishima reaches for the tangle of magic inside him. It glows soft and blue. He gathers it all in his mind’s eye, scoops it in his palms like a rare and beautiful flower, and pours it into Kuroo Tetsurou. 

Vines of curling light burst from his hands and sink into the body in his arms. His neck and ears burn with the heat off his head. Hair ignites like a flame, a small star born from love. Tsukishima’s vision goes spotty; his body goes numb. He gives everything he has, until the lights finally fade. 

When it does, last glimmers of magic blowing off in the breeze, the dock is silent. Then, Kuroo coughs. He tries to sit up and groans. 

“Oh, shit.” He rolls onto his back and blinks up at the sky, eyes finding Tsukishima immediately. “Kei?” 

He must understand, without words, that he is alive when he should be dead, and what his life implies. Tsukishima bursts into tears and throws himself in Kuroo’s arms. No one disturbs them while they weep. 

When they finally draw apart and Kuroo manages to sit up, his eyes widen. “Kei! Your hair.” 

Tsukishima blinks in confusion. “What about it?” 

“It’s different.” Kuroo wraps a long curl around his finger and tugs it far enough from his scalp that Tsukishima can just barely discern that his hair is no longer moonlit silver, but a rich golden blonde. 

“I…” He reaches inside, and finds only a warm emptiness where his magic once sprouted. “I think...it’s gone. I used it up.” 

Kuroo frowns, dragging his hand soothingly along his scalp. “You could have left. You could have kept your secret.” 

Tsukishima scoffs. “Don’t be foolish. No point in being free without you.” He combs through his bangs, a mild pout forming on his lips. “Does it...look okay?” 

“Well, lucky for you,” Kuroo begins, the whisper of a familiar smirk curling on his cheek, “I’ve always had a thing for blondes.” 

Tsukishima’s eyes water anew. This time, someone interrupts them with a deep, polite cough. 

When they look up, it’s to the sight of Crown Prince Ushijima Wakatoshi, dressed in a plain coat and holding a book of poems. All but one of the guards linger back behind a blockade formed and maintained by one menacing horse. 

“Please do not concern yourself with bows,” the prince says as both young men struggle to stand. 

Crouching down, Prince Ushijima picks up the dagger off where it lies abandoned on the dock. “I like to enjoy poetry in the mornings, at this teahouse over there. The commotion was unwelcome, but not unrewarding.” He examines the knife, pulls it halfway out of its sheath and nods, satisfied. “Thank you for returning my favorite pruning knife.” 

Kuroo gapes, soundless as a drowning fish. Tsukishima has the tact to bow his head. “Of course, Your Highness. Sorry for the disturbance.” 

Prince Ushijima inclines his head and turns to leave. 

Even freshly back from death, Kuroo Tetsurou cannot keep his mouth shut. “Aren’t you going to arrest me?” 

To their continued shock, Prince Ushijima smiles. It looks a little unnerving on his stoic face, but you can’t say those things to a prince. 

“Your magic spell was most compelling,” he says to Tsukishima. “I will be too occupied remembering its beauty to recall the presence of any thieves. Especially if they never break laws in my kingdom again.” 

Kuroo blinks, again mute. Tsukishima sighs and bows again. “Thank you, Your Highness.” 

Prince Ushijima inclines his head and turns to leave. This time, no one stops him. 

Tsukishima laughs, loud and helplessly happy, and falls back into Kuroo’s waiting arms. 

The story ends with the impish thief kissing the last traces of sadness from the lonely boy’s mouth. The story begins with two young lovers, climbing to their feet, to go calm down their horse. 

**Author's Note:**

> (added 10/3, post reveals) now that y’all know I wrote this, I can finally thank some people! 
> 
> huge appreciations for mads, bette, xixu, and j for their roles in keeping me focused, sane, and smiling through this process. 
> 
> extra big big scoops of love for my friend sid, who literally stalked the google doc, cheerleading and cleaning up my spelling/grammar errors. they must have culled hundreds of useless commas and fixed a dozen poorly worded sentences. if this story is at all legible it’s because of them. <3 
> 
> thank you so much for reading! kudos and comments are appreciated. this author responds to comments! 
> 
> find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/greenywrites)


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